Imperfect Design
by Supernoodle
Summary: A full length version of my E/O Challenge Drabble, "Bad Burrito". Dean vs. His Appendix, set somewhere mid season 3. Sick!Dean, Protective!Sam. Reviews are always treasured and will lead to frequent updates. Warning - Homophobic themes in chapter 3
1. Chapter 1

_**Right then. I started this fic in Jan 08 and sort of put it on the shelf, waiting until inspiration struck again- which it did after all the lovely feedback and reviews that I received for my drabble, "Bad Burrito".**_

_**Special thanks to Enkidu07 for encouraging me to carry on writing this story and for giving me an idea where to go with it. (I hope it's better than the first version that you read, my friend!)**_

_**Anyhoo, on with the sickly goodness. I don't know why a Sick!Whumped!Angsty!Dean! is so appealing – best not to analyze such things too much. **_

_**As always, this was just written for fun and not profit. Sadly, I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters – I only own the order that the words are written.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**Supernooodle, **_

_**21st Dec 08**_

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**Imperfect Design**

**By Supernoodle**

**1**

Sam Winchester was dreaming.

Actually, it was more of a nightmare – which was nothing new. Nearly every dream Sam had these days turned bad in the end and this one was no different. He and Dean were being chased by Sam's least favourite corporate mascot, keeper of the great tits of America: Ronald McDonald. He had them backed into a corner, but Dean had pulled out a flamethrower from somewhere and had begun to gleefully toast the white faced bastard, and Ronald was moaning and whimpering miserably.

"Dude, don't!_ - Stop it!"_ Sam yelled at his brother, covering his ears with his hands, wincing at the pitiful noise. He wanted Dean to burn him – he hated Ronald McDonald with a passion, but the noise the clown was making was horrible. Dean seemed not to hear it though, either that or he didn't care, and he carried on toasting away with a maniacal grin on his face.

Sam had always had nightmares and he'd always been an insomniac. Dean told him he'd grow out of it eventually but he never had. Most nights Sam woke covered in sweat and breathing heavily with the vestige of whatever had been trying to get him or his brother still haunting him. During those almost intolerable weeks back on the road immediately after Jess' death he'd barely slept at all, but he'd struggled on anyway, running on coffee and sugar, until Dean began to notice that something was really wrong and had forced him to slow down. And although his brother did nothing other than just stay awake in the dark with him when he'd woken up drenched in sweat and screaming Jess's name, it was surprising to Sam what a comfort that had been. Just to know Dean was nearby was enough to make everything okay, always had been.

"Die, Ronald!" Sam yelled into the darkness, sitting up in bed with his heart pounding heavily against his ribs and legs almost completely tangled up in the rough, slightly itchy sheets. He could still hear the god-awful whimpering, and running a hand through his sweat soaked mop of hair, Sam unwound himself from the sheets and shuffled to the edge of his bed, where he sat, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands.

It was still pitch dark in the room and Sam glanced at the clock - 3.10 am - too early even for him to get up, and glancing towards the bathroom, thinking that a quick splash of water on his face might help, he noticed a thin bar of light escaping from under the closed door. Then he looked over at his brother's bed and realised that it was empty.

Yawning, Sam got to his feet and shuffled towards the bathroom. "Dude, you in there?" He called out, knocking on the door, but there was no reply.

Frowning, Sam pulled open the curtains and peered outside into the darkened parking lot, the Impala was still sitting out the front and it was unlikely that Dean would have gone off walking anywhere. They were out in the middle of nowhere. Besides, Dean wouldn't have gone off on his own without telling him. Things were pretty screwed up lately between them, but some things never changed. They always let each other know where they were headed. It was an unspoken rule and after spending best part of a year chasing after a missing father, it was a rule neither brother was in a hurry to break.

Walking back to the bathroom, Sam knocked against the flimsy chipboard door and called his brother's name once more.

Getting no reply, he tried the door and to his surprise, he found it was unlocked. Pushing it open slowly, hoping not to be greeted with the sight of his brother asleep on the can or something equally as unpleasant, he stuck his head round the door, blinking in the brightness of the bathroom's harsh fluorescent lights.

Dean was lying curled up on the floor, in between the bathtub and the toilet and Sam's first thought was that his brother had just fallen asleep down there. He had found Dean asleep in some strange places after a night on the Purple Nurples, but he was pale and shivering, and Sam knew for a fact that Dean wasn't drunk – not unless he'd made a midnight trip to the local 7-11.

Squeezing into the small room, Sam knelt down next to Dean on the cold floor and touched his brother's shoulder gently. It was freezing in the room, but heat radiated from Dean's body and the boxers and faded black Metallica T-shirt he had worn to bed earlier that evening was drenched in sweat. "Hey? Dean, you alright, man?"

Dean moaned and curled up even further, pulling his knees up to his chest until Sam shook him and he opened his eyes and looked groggily up at him.

"Dude?" Sam said. "What are you doing on the floor? Are you okay? What's the matter?"

"I threw up, then I threw up again and on the tenth go I thought I might as well just stay here." Dean croaked, burying his face under his arm and Sam winced in sympathy. It had been a long time since he had seen his brother look so sick. Reaching over, he put a hand to Dean's forehead to check his temperature, only to have his brother bat it away irritably.

"You can't stay in here all night, Dean. It's freezing - come on, let's get you up, okay?"

Dean cracked open his eyes again and gave his brother a mournful look. "Just leave me down here and I'll die quietly, Sammy." He murmured in reply.

Sam shook his head - Dean knew full well that that would be the last thing he would do. But Sam didn't know that only reason Dean was still laying on the floor of the bathroom was that it hurt too much to move.

He'd felt kind of _off_ for the past couple of days, tired and headachey and he'd had a niggling cramp in his belly all day, starting just before he'd thrown his McBreakfast in the trash a minute after buying it, and getting progressively worse since then. He'd tried to put it down to all the gas station junk that they had been living on over the past few days - especially the half frozen burritos that they had shoved down their throats on the way home from their last hunt, but by 10pm that night Dean had been just about ready to pass out. Only of course, he hadn't breathed a word of it to Sam, hoping that the stabbing agony would just go away on its own. When it came to his health, Dean was nothing if not optimistic. He had his fingers crossed, hoping it was just a dose of food poisoning or even a nice case of stomach flu, but then he never got that lucky.

Sam sighed and got to his feet, then reached down and took hold of Dean's arms. "Come on, dude, I'm not gonna leave you in here. You're sick and you'll end up with pneumonia lying out here all night."

Dean closed his eyes and nodded. "Okay, Sam…" He replied weakly and gritting his teeth, he let Sam pull him to his feet, trying to stifle the cry of pain that threaten to rip loose from his throat and only partially succeeding. Groaning, he staggered forward, doubling over as the pain flared white-hot down his side, and he would have fallen back down to the floor if his Sam hadn't grabbed hold of him.

"Hey – _Hey?"_ Sam cried, startled by Dean's cry which was so unlike his usually stoic brother, and manoeuvring Dean down onto the edge of the tub, he crouched down in front of him to get a good look at his face. Knowing that if he looked Dean directly in the eye, he wouldn't be able to lie to him. "Dude, what's wrong with you?"

Dean wiped a shaking hand down his face and gave Sam a crooked, thin-lipped smile that was obviously meant to reassure him, but instead, it just made Sam more worried. Taking a deep breath, Dean opened his mouth, ready to tell Sam that he was okay but another wave of pain ripped through his gut, stealing the breath from his lungs. Doubling over, clutching his hands to his stomach, Dean moaned weakly instead and let lose a string of curses that would have made even their Dad blush.

"Dean?" Sam cried, talking hold of his brother's arm, feeling him shiver violently. "Tell me what's wrong!"

"Pain in my side." Dean panted in reply, scrunching his eyes shut. "Ah crap, Sammy… It's freakin' _killing me_."

Sam frowned, brain racing, trying to think of any time that his brother could have been hurt during their last hunt, or if he'd eaten anything in the past day or so that was more unsanitary than the crap he usually consumed. Dean had been thrown around a little by the spirit they had been hunting on the last job, but nothing that would cause any real damage, and they had eaten pretty much the same things all week, it didn't make sense. There was nothing Sam could think of, apart from one thing. "Which side hurts, Dean?"

Dean squinted up at him, his face completely colourless, and the big dark circles that he got whenever he was really sick stood out like bruises under his eyes. "What? - My right side... Oh, crap _- it can't be_."

Sam sighed, getting up again. His knees creaking and popping just like their old man's used to. "Sounds like your appendix to me, Bro."

Dean shook his head, wiping away the sweat from his face with the hand that wasn't clamped to his side. "Ah, no way, Sammy. C'mon…"

"Well, you haven't eaten anything all day, you didn't drink the beer I bought – which in itself tells me that you're pretty sick. You have a fever, nausea, a pain in your right side and you look like you're about to keel over any second. I'm not a doctor but I'd put money on it being your appendix."

Dean looked unhappily up at him. "What the hell?… _Really?"_

Sam nodded sympathetically and clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder. He wanted to be wrong – he really did, but it was unlikely. "Sorry man, but I think I should get you to a hospital."

And instead of arguing, like he had expected him to, Dean just hung his head and nodded – proof enough that he wasn't joking about how bad he felt. Dean had to be in a bad way before he would even let Sam bring up the _H_ word.

"Man, this sucks." Dean murmured, holding his arm up and letting Sam help him to his feet. "What the hell did I do to deserve this?"

-o-

Dean struggled to pull on his jeans and t-shirt for a good five minutes, swearing and cursing, before he gave in and let Sam help him get dressed. Then more surprisingly, he also let Sam help him out to the car, hobbling and bent double like an old geezer before willingly climbing into the passenger seat. He didn't even reach for the tape deck as Sam started up the Impala, pulling the big old Chevy out onto the blacktop. Instead, Dean just sat huddled up, resting his head against the passenger door window, his quick breath leaving misty white ghosts on the cold glass.

Sam glanced over at his brother, frowning. Dean looked pretty bad, he'd obviously been sick all day – maybe even for a few days, and yet for some reason, he still felt the need to try and hide it from him, which just pissed Sam off and made him sad all at the same time. He never understood why his brother couldn't just ever let him in? Why couldn't he ever let anyone in?

"You're an idiot, Dean!" He sighed, slapping his brother on the knee.

Dean gave him a narrow, sideways glance. "Nice Sam, kick a guy when he's down why don't you?"

Sam ignored him. "You always do this. You've been sick all day and you've said nothing. Every time you get sick or hurt you try to hide it from me, or you make a joke of it. You used to do it with Dad too. I don't get it. Why do you do that?"

Dean groaned and pulled the hood of Sam's borrowed sweater over his head and even this gesture was painfully familiar. Dean didn't really do sportswear – he wasn't really an Adidas kind of guy, and he only ever borrowed the hoodie when he wasn't feeling good. It was like some sort of comfort blanket, only Dean seemed not to be aware this himself. He had a poker face to rival the best, but even the great Dean Winchester had his tells.

"Sam, please. I really don't want to do this right now. I feel horrible, okay? Feels like someone shoved a hot poker in my guts and gave em a good stir. How's that for sharing? You feel better now?"

Sam looked over at his brother. "All I'm saying is you don't have to be the hero all the time, you know?" He said quietly. "You're not Superman."

Dean let out a little snort of laughter. "Nah, Sammy – I always thought I was more like Batman… Which makes you my Boy Wonder."

"Dude? _Robin?_... Please!" Sam replied, smiling despite himself. Dean was doing it again, using humour to hide the hurt, but he knew he should give him a break. This wasn't the time to nag. At least Dean had been sensible enough for once not to argue about going to the hospital.

"Yeah, you're Robin alright. You're totally my bitch." Dean chuckled, then doubled over, his laugh becoming a moan of pain.

Sam slowed the car slightly, peering over at his brother worriedly. "Dean? You okay?"

Dean was silent for a moment as he clutched his knees to his chest, visibly shaking, then groaned, "Sam, stop the car!"

"But we're not that far away-" Sam replied frowning, and he took his foot off the gas, slowing the car down further but not stopping until he saw Dean fumbling for the door handle. Then he quickly pulled over, realising that his brother was going to get out whether the Impala was stopped or not and a moment later, Dean was out the door.

Sam followed, quickly running round the other side of the car in time to see Dean drop to his knees on the grass verge at the side of the road, heaving as his body tried to vomit up his empty stomach.

Sam sighed heavily, giving Dean a moment to pull himself together, then went over to him, helping him back to his feet and walking him slowly back to the car. Dean was a mess, shaking and stumbling and Sam was beginning to get really worried. Appendicitis was one thing, a ruptured appendix was something else entirely. "You alright to carry on?" he asked him.

Dean closed his eyes and leaned back against the Impala, wiping across his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Yeah - Yeah, I'm okay. Just no way I was going to risk puking in my car," and as Dean crawled back into the Chevy, Sam jogged back round to the driver's side and folding his legs back until the steering wheel, he pulled the door shut, it's familiar loud creak sounding deafening in the silence of the night.

The brothers sat in silence for a few miles, Dean didn't really seem up for talking and Sam was concentrating on driving. He didn't know the area and was keeping his eyes peeled for road signs and he almost jumped when Dean started speaking.

"This totally sucks, you know?"

Sam smiled. That was an understatement if ever there was one and risked a glance over at Dean who was curled up, his feet up on the seat, hoodie pulled up over his head again so only his chin and nose were visible. Even so, he looked thoroughly miserable. "It'll be okay. We have the fake insurance – they can whip your appendix out and you'll be right as rain in a couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" Dean groaned. "I can't be out of commission for weeks – we said we'd help Bobby out at the weekend with that haunting in Philly-"

Sam shook his head. Yet again, Dean was worrying about other people and not himself, and he knew he had Dad to thank for that. It was times like that this that he realised just how much their Dad had put on Dean's shoulders – the sense of responsibility that had been drilled into him from when he was just a little kid.

"Dean, I'm sure Bobby will understand. You can't help getting sick."

Dean answered with a growl that could have meant pretty much anything and he tucked his knees up tighter and looked out the side window into the darkness. Illuminated in the pale glow from the dashboard, he looked dreadful and Sam put his foot down on the gas pedal. The sooner he got his brother some medical attention, the better he would like it.

"Hang on Dean, okay? The hospital can't be that far. Well get you fixed up right as rain. A little emergency surgery, you'll be fine."

Dean was silent for a moment, then a tiny "_Can't wait"_ floated across to Sam, followed by another moan of pain, and Sam winced in sympathy once again. He hated it when Dean was hurt or sick because he just felt so useless. Dean would let him stitch him up when he was cut, let him pop back dislocated joins, splint broken fingers, but the moment he tried to offer any emotional support, any concern or kindness, Dean shut down.

When the shoe was on the other foot however...

"You should have told me you were sick earlier, Dean." Sam said quietly, trying to keep the nagging tone out of his voice as much as he could. But there was still a little anger, he could hear it himself. Anger that Dean could end up in such a state and not breath a word of how he felt to him.

"I still think it's just something I ate." Dean replied quietly and Sam opened his mouth to start threatening to knock some sense into him, but shut it again quickly. This wasn't the time and he didn't really want to make Dean feel any worse than he already did.

The yelling could wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

The doctor, who Sam thought looked a lot like Ralph Mouth from Happy Days pressed down on Dean's stomach and Dean bucked under the touch, agony flashing bright in his eyes.

"Belly's rigid." Dr Ralph said to the nurse standing beside him. "Lots of guarding. Pain centred over McBurney's point. I'm going with appendix. What with the vomiting and fever." Then he turned to look at Dean. "We could do an ultrasound to double check, but I'm pretty sure we need to whip that blighter out sooner rather than later."

"Whoa, whoa, Doc." Dean gasped, struggling to sit up and failing. "Nobody is getting cut open tonight. I'm fine. It was just a bad burrito."

Sam bit his lip and tried his hardest not to laugh because it wasn't really funny. Three hours of puking followed by pain so bad he could barely stand - plus a diagnosis from a surgeon, and Dean still wouldn't admit that he was really sick. He looked over at his brother and was met with panicked green eyes that silently begged him to get him out of there, but Sam shook his head. Dean had looked worse in the past, but not much.

They had sat in the ER for an hour before being called to a exam cubical and Sam had thought that Dean couldn't have looked any more of a state than when he'd found him on the floor of the bathroom, but he was wrong. Dean's face had gone from pale, to white, to grey, sweat poured off him as he burned with fever and the only way he could find any respite from the pain was by curling up on his side with his knees drawn up towards his chest.

"It's not food poisoning I'm afraid Mr…?"

"Coverdale." Sam offered - giving the doctor the name on the fake insurance card - and Dr Ralph smiled patiently at Dean. "I can assure you it's not food poisoning.

Dean sighed heavily, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Are you sure I need surgery though – could just settle down on its own?"

Dr Ralph frowned and turned to Sam, looking at him slightly puzzled.

"I'm sorry. My brother has a bit of a _thing_ about hospitals." Sam told the doctor, ignoring the lazer death glare that Dean had fixed him with, then he patted Dean on the leg, seeing the real fear behind it in his brother's eyes. Dean had always hated hospitals and that hatred had increased tenfold since the crash, since their Dad had died. They had stitched each other up countless time, dug shot and even bullets out of each other's torn flesh, but Sam wasn't going to start performing surgery on his brother, no matter how much Dean silently begged him to.

"So what now?" Dean murmured miserably.

The doctor scribbled something into Dean's notes and passed them to the nurse then turned back to face Dean. "We need to whip out your appendix as soon as we can, Mr Coverdale. From the amount of pain you are in there's a very real risk of rupture and we don't want that to happen. Very nasty. Now, have you had anything to eat in the past eight hours?"

Dean shook his head forlornly. "I had some M&Ms around lunch time, but I spent all night puking them up."

"Okay, that's good." Dr Ralph replied. "Now a nurse will be in soon with a consent form and a gown and then we'll take you straight up to theatre. You don't need to worry, it's a routine procedure, we perform hundreds of appendectomies every year. You'll be up and around in two or three days."

"Can I wait here?" Sam asked.

Doctor Ralph smiled and nodded. "There's a waiting area outside the theatres. You can wait there. As long as the appendix isn't perforated, the surgery should only take an hour or so. Your brother will be fine."

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Dean replied and curled up again onto his side away from Sam, burying his face into the pillow.

-o-

Dean spent his first day after his surgery drowsy from the anaesthetic and morphine. Dr Ralph had been a little worried that he wasn't more alert, but Sam explained that Dean had always taken a while to shake off anaesthesia. He'd had a few surgeries in the past that Sam could remember, and every time Dean had been a little worse for wear afterwards. They hooked him up to a heart monitor and gave him oxygen anyway and by eight o'clock that evening, Dean was wide awake and thoroughly miserable. And his misery was compounded when the nurses told Sam he had to leave as visiting hours were over.

Spending the night alone in hospital, too sore to move, still feeling sick as a dog, with no-one to keep you company other than puking guy in the other bed across from you, Dean decided, really wasn't much fun. Especially as every time puking guy puked, Dean wanted to puke in sympathy, and his stomach muscles screamed in protest. Eventually, he begged the nurse to take pity on him and after a nice big dose of morphine, he finally got some sleep.

The next day wasn't much fun either because Dean had been awake most of the night and when Dr Ralph came back to check on his progress, he brought a gaggle of med students with him who asked stupid questions and poked his still ridiculously sore belly with their cold, inexperienced fingers until Dean was ready to smother them or himself with his own pillow.

So when Sam finally turned up at eleven when visiting hours started again, he was somewhat surprised to still see Dean still looking so dejected.

"You alright, Dude? You not feeling any better?" Sam asked him, pulling up a chair by his bedside.

Dean gave him a woeful look. "Dude, my freakin' stomach hurts worse than it did. Did you know they cut through your damn stomach muscles? I can't even sit up."

Sam winced in sympathy. He could see Dean was in a lot of pain still and the morphine pump was still connected by an IV that ran into his right arm. During the time that he'd left Dean last night and coming back to the hospital today, Sam had been using his research-fu and now knew an awful lot more about the appendix than he did before. Including how painful an appendectomy was. "They don't actually cut through the muscle, you know. They usually cut along the length of the muscle fibres..." Then realising that Dean was glaring murderously at him, he decided to change the subject to something that would cheer his brother up.

"Have they said how long you need to stay here? Did they look at your stitches? No infection or anything?"

Dean sighed heavily and tried to wriggle around on the stack of pillows behind him in an attempt to get more comfortable, but it wasn't happening. "The doc said another two days or so, but screw that, Sammy. I'm not staying here two more days."

"Well, wait and see how it goes when you are up and around again, Dean. You can't leave if you can't even sit up." Sam told him and to try and change the subject again, he held up a paper bag and waved it by Dean's face. "I got you presents."

Dean's scowl slipped slightly and the hint of a smile almost appeared on his still way too pale face as Sam Reached down into the bag and brought out the gifts he'd brought on the way – a couple of Muscle Car magazines, a giant bag of M&Ms and a carton of Dean's favourite OJ. And then fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out his iPod and put that on top of the magazines.

Dean looked at his brother doubtfully. "I had my appendix removed, Sammy. Not my good taste in music. I'm not quite bored enough yet to listen to your emo crap."

Sam's smile didn't slip for a second. "If you can figure out how to work the thing, Dean, I think you'll find a playlist on there by the name of _Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock._ Should keep you amused for a little while."

Dean eyed Sam suspiciously. "It better have some Zeppelin on it."

"Yeah, Dean. There's some Zeppelin. As well as some Metallica, a little Leonard Skinnard -"

"Leonard?" Dean interrupted. "Did you just say _Leonard_ _Skinnard_, Sammy?"

And now it was Sam's time to look suspicious. "Yeah... _Why?"_

Dean put a hand to his face and shook his head, but underneath he was grinning. "It's _Lynyrd_ _Skynyrd_, you moron. It's not someone's name. It's not Leonard Skinnard and his band." he laughed.

Sam shrugged, trying to stop himself chuckling. It was good to see Dean smile, even if it was at his expense. "Like anyone else under the age of forty would even care, dude."

Dean, still laughing, opened his mouth to argue, then suddenly, his face lost what little colour it had and he lay still against the pillows behind him, his left hand groping for the morphine pump.

"You alright?" Sam asked, sitting forwards, ready to get his brother whatever he needed.

Dean sucked in a deep breath then let it out again before he opened his eyes and smiled weakly at his brother. "I'm fine - I'm good, Sam. Just don't make me laugh, okay. It freakin' hurts."

"Sure thing, Leonard." Sam replied, biting his lip and easily dodging the pot of pudding that Dean threw at his head.

-o-

After three days in the hospital Dean was just about climbing the walls. After another med-student prodding that morning, they had got him out of bed and made him shuffle up and down the hallway, dressed in nothing but his hospital johnny and a thin robe, almost doubled over while his healing stomach muscles cramped and twitched like someone was poking him in the guts with a cattle prod. He wouldn't have minded so much if it wasn't one of the younger, prettier nurses, Nurse Hillary, holding his arm as he went. He was glad that Sam hadn't been around to see that display of utter feebleness. They then gave him a little while to recover from that huge exertion before getting him up again and making him walk down to the bathroom so he could have a shave and a bath in four inches of water with strict instruction not to get his dressing wet. He'd then decided it would be a really good idea to ask Nurse Hilly if she'd wanted to stick around and wash his back for him, but she had politely declined with a blush before quickly finding somewhere else she needed to be, and to say he'd felt like a sleazy asshole was an understatement. It seemed Sam was right – he really did confuse reality with porn. And to top it all, when he finally made it back to his bed, he found Sam sitting in his room, eating his Jello.

"Hey, you're up." Sam grinned, jumping up to help his brother as Dean still hadn't actually made it to fully upright and he was sure if he let go of his stomach, his guts might still burst through the hole they had cut.

"Well done, Captain Obvious." Dean snapped in reply. "I'm up, I'm cured. Now we can get the hell out of here?"

Sam's face fell and Dean felt like an even bigger asshole for taking it out on him. "Sorry, Sam." He said quietly, easing himself gingerly onto the bed.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked him cautiously. "Other that the obvious..."

"Yeah, everything's just peachy. I've been poked and prodded by the cast of scrubs, scared away the one hot nurse in this place and the food sucks." Dean replied with a sigh.

"Did the doctor say you could go yet?"

Dean frowned, "No. But since when does that matter? I feel better. Time to split."

Sam frowned. Dean was being his usual grumpy self when it came to hospitals, and Sam couldn't blame him. They had both had a lifetime's worth of hospital visits in the past and what with the electrocution and the crash and then what happened to their Dad, he completely understood why Dean wanted out. The only trouble was, Dean didn't always do what was best for himself – in fact, most times he did the complete opposite. Sam would happily bundle his brother into the passenger seat of the Impala and drive away as fast he could. He had been pretty lonely for the past few days and missed Dean being around – wondering how he could have ever have gone all those years without so much as talking to his brother when he was at college – not to mention how he was going to cope when the deal came due. But as much as he wanted to get Dean out of here, he wasn't going to do at the expense of his health.

"Dean – you can't even stand upright. I don't think the doc is gonna say it's okay for you to leave."

Dean shook his head. "Standing upright it totally overrated, Sam."

Sam tried not to laugh. "C'mon, man. You just had surgery. For once, don't push it, okay? You worry about me when I'm sick."

"Yeah, but-" Dean began.

"But nothing, Sam replied. "The feeling is mutual Dean. I worry about you too and I don't want you to make yourself worse just because you hate being in hospital. Which, by the way, I totally get... What with Dad and everything."

Dean was silent for a moment, eyes cast to the floor, then he shuffled back up the bed and wincing, he lowered himself back down to the pillows and pulled the blankets back over his legs.

"This still sucks." He sulked and Sam gave Dean's calf a quick squeeze. "Tomorrow, dude. Okay? If you are feeling better tomorrow, I'll get you out of here."

"Thanks Sammy." Dean replied quietly and closed his eyes. Hobbling around like a cripple as it turned out, was actually pretty tiring.

-o-

The next morning, Dean discharged himself just after the med students had had their cold-handed way with him for the last time. The wound was healing nicely, he showed no signs of infection, he was eating and the other end was working fine too and other than the fact he was still really sore, Dr Ralph saw no reason that he shouldn't go home – as long as he took it easy.

"Taking it easy means bed rest, Dean." Sam told his brother as he drove him back to the motel room that he had booked for another week.

"Whatever..." Dean replied, holding his stomach and trying not to wince as he reached forwards to turn up the volume on the stereo. Sam had been true to his words and had put a pretty decent playlist together for him on his iPod – but there was just something about the sound of the old tapes in the car's old deck.

Sam could never get his head round the fact that Dean wouldn't update the Impala's sound system. It wouldn't cost that much to replace the tape deck with a nice new CD player, but upgrading to CDs would involve Dean throwing out the tapes – and that is something that was never going to happen. What Sam didn't know, was that a lot of the tapes in that tatty old shoe box Dean kept under the seat had belong to their Mom and Dean would sooner cut off his left nut than throw out that little part of her that he still had.

"I'm serious Dean. I said I'd take you home if you promised to take it easy until you're all healed up. And I can see that even leaning forwards is hurting you, so don't start arguing with me."

Dean shut his mouth. He had been planning to argue, but really, he didn't have a leg to stand on.

"And if you start, I'm gonna take us straight to Bobby's so he can keep an eye on you too."

"I'm not eight, Sam." Dean groused.

"No, but you act like it sometimes." Sam told him, pulling the Impala into the motel car park.

Dean scowled and shot Sam a withering look. "You're bossy."

"And you're short." Sam replied smiling. "And an invalid."

It was going to be a_ long_ week.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Dean picked up his car keys from the dresser and pulled on his leather jacket, staring defiantly at his brother.

"Where are you going?" Sam sighed, looking away from the laptop where he was doing some research on a museum haunting in Philly – the job they were meant to be helping Bobby with that weekend.

"Come on, Sam. I'm going crazy. It's Saturday night and I haven't been outside the door in four whole days." Dean replied, not even trying to conceal the pleading in his voice. He wasn't lying – he was going slowly out of his mind with boredom. Now he was feeling mostly better, the orange and brown seventies print wallpaper of the motel room's walls were slowly closing in on him and if he had to spend another second listening to Sam tap away on the keys of the laptop, he might shoot the damn thing – and then maybe Sam too.

So far over the past few days he'd cleaned and oiled every single gun that they owned, sharpened every single knife until the edges were razor sharp, he'd then used said knives to sharpen half a dozen wooden stakes – useless for vampires, but very handy for keeping other various un-dead things resting in their coffins, then he'd re-sharpened the knives again. He'd read every magazine they had in the room and even old ones that Sam had found laying around in the backseat of the car. Dean had even read one of the books from the motel lobby – a tatty old paperback copy of Stephen King's _Cujo_, and Sam could have sworn he saw moisture glistening in his brother's eyes as he sat back on the bed reading it.

"_Damn stupid Dog_," Dean had muttered under his breath half-way through it, before throwing the book to the end of the bed.

Dean had never been very good at taking it easy.

"We went to the drugstore yesterday." Sam replied, shutting down the laptop, knowing full well that now Dean was almost back to his old self, a simple no wasn't going to stop this latest bid for freedom.

"Going to freakin' Wallgreen's to pick up some toothpaste and shower gel is not a day out, Sammy. C'mon, there's a bar about ten minute's drive away. I saw it when we drove into town. They have live music, and food. And other people… _Other people who aren't you_."

Sam feigned hurt. "Hey, my idea of fun is not playing nurse for my grouchy older brother, Dean."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie, Sam. You love being a mother hen, clucking around me, telling me what to do. You know you do. You damn well get off on it! Now come on. Get your coat. I need a steak dinner and some beer."

Getting to his feet, Sam reached for his own coat hanging on the back of the dresser's chair. If he was honest, he kinda needed a break too. "Okay – we can go. But you're not having a beer. You're still on antibiotics."

"Fine! Whatever." Dean grinned and headed out the door.

-o-

An hour later, the boys were sitting in a booth picking at the remains of their dinner. Dean had ordered a bloody rib-eye steak, fries, and all the trimmings, and Sam had gone for the BBQ chicken, and even he had to admit that it was good to get out and have some half-decent food. Dean was a pretty good cook when he put his mind to it, having been in charge of most mealtimes when they were growing up, but Sam wasn't and because they didn't want to spend all their spare cash on take-out food while Dean was out of commission, Sam had been playing chef for the past few days. But even he had to admit that grilled cheese sandwiches, tinned tuna and pasta and microwave noodles got kind of boring after a while.

"So, you feel better now?" Sam asked as Dean threw his napkin down in a gesture of defeat and patted his stomach.

"You have no idea, Sam. No offence, but living on your food – I might have starved to death. I'm guessing that when you were at college, Jess did most of the cooking?"

Sam smiled and took a swig of his beer. Dean was never sure whether he should talk about Jess or not. He hadn't known her – had only met her the once and that hadn't been under good circumstances, but he knew Sammy had loved her – the yellow-eyed-demon had told them Sam was going to ask her to marry him, yet the only time he and Sam had really ever talked about her was when Sam was swearing vengeance for her death. Every now and then he would tell Dean something – something she once did, something she once said that made him laugh and Dean was glad that Sam seemed to be remembering the good times they had together now rather than just her death.

"Jess liked to bake." Sam replied.

"Uh-huh?"

"She made these little oatmeal and raisin cookies all the time. She left them out for me for when I came home late with little notes on the plate," Sam replied, absently picking the label from his beer bottle.

Dean smiled sadly. Of course Jess baked. Of course Sam had ended up with a blonde haired, cookie baking girlfriend. Jess was basically the representation of everything Sam had ever wanted in his life. She was stability, she was normality... she was home. Everything Sam would never have – not now, not after all that had happened, and changing the subject before he felt like slitting his wrists, Dean sighed and looked wistfully towards the bar. "Man, I would kill for a beer."

Sam pulled himself out of his sudden and unexpected reverie and looked down guiltily at his own bottle, realising that he should have been a little more thoughtful and had a soda too – his brother was practically drooling as he watched him put the bottle to his lips.

Dean had been a surprisingly good patient since Sam had got him out of the hospital, hadn't really pushed himself at all – and whether this was from the fact that he was still pretty sore or that he realised for once that he had really been sick this time, Sam didn't know. Either way, Dean's scar was healing nicely, he was taking his medication without argument and he was practically back to his old self, and Sam had a change of heart. One beer wasn't going to kill him.

"I'll be right back." He told Dean getting to his feet. "Gotta hit the head."

"Thanks for sharing, Acorn Bladder." Dean replied, picking up the desert menu, And Sam scooted round the side of the booth so his brother couldn't see where he was really going, and then headed towards the bar.

-o-

It was the best stocked bar Sam had ever seen – he'd never heard of most of the beers on tap, or half of the hundred or more bottles of spirits that lined the shelves behind and he was glad that Dean was still sat at the table. The temptation of new and un-tasted alcohol may have been too much for him to resist.

"What can I get you, hun?" The buxom, smoky-voiced, fifty-something barmaid asked Sam as he scanned the twenty or so taps that ran along the polished wood of the bar top. "We got Old Knucklehead, Ruination IPA or how about a pint of Stone's Double Bastard Ale?"

"Um... Just two Bud Lites, please?" Sam asked, smiling apologetically at the choice he'd made, all too aware from the way the guy on the stool beside him was staring at him, that this wasn't really a Bud Lite kind of place.

"Sure thing, Sweetheart." The barmaid replied and began to pour the drinks as Sam, trying his best to ignore staring guy, peered back at his brother who was still pouring over the menu, no doubt weighing up the merits of blueberry pie and ice cream over fudge cake. Talking about Jess with Dean was hard, but not talking about her was harder. Dean hadn't known her, and their mutual friends – well, he didn't really have friends anymore. Sometimes it was like his time in Stanford with her had been a dream, one that was fading with the nightmare reality of real life, and no matter how hard he tried to hang on to it, he couldn't. So much had happened since her death, what with losing their Dad, and Dean's deal, it was getting harder and harder to remember those good times.

Sometimes it was like college had never happened at all.

Suddenly staring guy spoke, his accent was thick Scottish and his words were slurring like he'd had a few too many pints of Double Bastard Ale already. "Checkin' up on yer pretty little boyfriend over there, are ye?"

"_Cal!"_ The barmaid warned sharply, putting the two beers in front of Sam. "Don't start, okay." Then she turned back to Sam and smiled. "That'll be eight bucks."

Sam fished out a ten from his wallet, ignoring the guy as he continued to bore holes into the side of his head. It wasn't the first time he and Dean had been mistaken for a couple, but it was the first time really that there had been any aggression with it.

"Bloody pansies." Cal continued. "This is nay a queer bar."

"Cal Williams. That's enough." The barmaid snapped, throwing her towel at the man. "Are you looking to get yourself barred again?" Then she looked back up at Sam, handing him his change. "Let me apologise on behalf of Cal here."

Sam picked up the two beers and turned to face the drunken Scot. "Not that it's any of your business, but that guy over there is my_ brother_ and we're just trying to have a quite night out, okay."

The Scot picked up his drink, taking a deep swallow then slammed the glass back down to the bar. "Brother my arse." He yelled, slipping off the bar stool and onto unsteady feet, where he wavered, pointing a finger at Sam. "Yer bleedin' poofs should'ne be allowed in a decent place like this."

"Whatever, man." Sam replied and began walking off back towards Dean. He could feel himself tensing up, fight or flight response dialled up to eleven thanks to the years of training. The guy was hammered and not much of a threat – Sam could take him down in a blink of an eye if he had to, but like he'd said – he and Dean were having a quite dinner and it would be great to just have an uneventful night for once. But then nothing ever went to plan and a moment later, a hand grabbed Sam's arm, yanking him backwards.

Sam whirled round on one foot, stumbling and dropping one of the glasses which smashed beneath his feet, sending beer and broken glass skittering across the wooden floor. Cal still had hold of him, half dragging Sam's arm, half holding himself up and as the Scot stumbled, his foot slipped in the beer and the next thing Sam knew, he was looking up the ceiling with a big drunk Scotsman laying on top of him and a circle of concerned faces peering down at them both.

"_Sonovabitch_." Sam grunted, rolling Cal off him. He'd gone down hard and his ears were still ringing a little from where he'd cracked his head against the hardwood floor – and as he lifted his had to check that his skull wasn't in pieces, he noticed the blood. His left shirt sleeve was completely red and twisting his hand round, he saw a chunk of the glass that he'd been holding sticking out of the side of his palm and swallowed dryly.

Suddenly, familiar hands had him under the arms, pulling him upright with a pained grunt of effort and Sam blinked away the little white stars that were currently dancing across his vision and looked down into his brother's concerned face.

"You alright, Sammy?" Dean asked, taking Sam's hand carefully in his own and grimacing at the blood. "What the hell happened?"

Sam looked over at Cal who was busily trying to pull himself to his feet using the tables and whoever was standing nearby for support. "That idiot happened. I was just buying you a beer."

"Bastard poofs!" Cal slurred, waving a finger at them and Dean looked back at his brother, utterly confused. Sam had only been gone a few minutes and yet he'd managed to get himself into a homophobic bar brawl. "What the hell?"

Sam sighed, and cradling his bleeding hand he gestured towards the Scot who was now upright again, but weaving on his feet like he was standing on the deck of a ship in high seas. "He thinks we're a couple – he doesn't much like it."

"Uh huh?" Dean replied, still slightly baffled, then he turned to look back at Cal who had made it halfway across the floor towards them, waving a fist in their general direction and yelling something that neither brother could even make out.

"Dude! What the hell is your problem?"

"You're my problem, you pair of feckin' arse bandits." He slurred, grabbing the table beside him to stay upright and Dean had to stop himself from laughing. He'd been called a lot of things in his life, but that was a new one, even on him.

"Look man – we're brothers okay!" Dean told the Scot, holding his hands up to try and placate him. He could have put the guy on his ass in about ten seconds flat, but he'd promised Sam in the car that he'd be on his best behaviour – and truthfully, he didn't really feel up to fighting. He was still pretty sore from the surgery although he'd done his best to hide it from his brother. If Sam had any inkling that he was still as way off his game as he was, there's no way he would have agreed to them coming out tonight.

"Dean, come on. Let's just go, okay." Sam said from behind him, and Dean glanced round at his brother's hiss of pain as he wiggled the shard of glass free from his palm and dropped it to the floor with the rest of the broken beer glass. But the second Dean's attention was taken, Cal lurched forwards, half stepping, half falling and he drove a fist into Dean's stomach.

The harsh yelp of agony that escaped from his brother's lips caused Sam's stomach to lurch and the younger hunter watched in horror as Dean doubled over, then crumpled to floor at Cal's feet.

"You sonovabitch!" Sam yelled, stepping over his brother's curled up body and lunging forwards, he grabbed Cal by the shirt with both hand and dragged him away from Dean. "What the hell did you hit him for?"

The Scott looked blearily up at him and tried to prise Sam's hand from his shirt before making a feeble attempt to throw a kick towards Dean and that was the last straw. Sam punched the Scot as hard as he could, sending him reeling backwards into a table, then grabbing him again, he continued to belt the guy, rage filling his whole body, blind and deaf to everything other than the crunch of his knuckles on Cal's face, until someone grabbed his arm and dragged him backwards, and panting with effort, he turned round to see one of the barmen had hold of his arm.

"That's enough, man." The guy told him, dropping his arm. "Take your brother and get out before I call the cops."

Sam blinked up at the guy as adrenaline zipped through him, leaving him shaking and unsteady in its wake, and turning round, he saw Dean desperately trying to pull himself to his feet, but it was the look in his brother's eye that really snapped him back – Dean was staring at him with a mixture of confusion and outright horror.

"Get your asses out of here now and don't come back." The barman repeated, and Sam nodded, pulling himself to his feet using one of the tables for support, and stumbled unsteadily over to Dean.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean gasped, grabbing hold of his brother's arm and letting Sam pull him to something that was a close to standing upright as he was going to get, which was pretty much bent double still.

"We gotta go." Sam murmured, grabbing him around the waist with his uninjured arm and began to half walk, half drag Dean towards the door.

"Damn right we gotta go." Dean gasped, leaning heavily on his brother and trying his hardest not to let out the sob of pain that was slowly making its way up his throat - instead he let out a stream of curses that would have made even a sailor blush.

Sam could feel Dean trembling in his arms and felt sick. He knew he was hurting him, but they had to get out of that bar. The last thing they needed was the cops on their asses and by the time they reached the car, Dean looked ready to pass out.

"Give me the keys, Dean." Sam yelled, and Dean fumbled around in his pocket as Sam leaned him against the Impala's hood. "_C'mon, dude_."

"I'm trying!" Dean groaned miserably, swapping hands so he could hold onto the car and delve into the other pocket and pulling the keys out, he flinched as Sam snatched them from his hand and bundled him into the passenger seat, before running round the car and getting in beside him. Starting the car, Sam gunned the engine and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving half the tires and a cloud of smoke behind them.

"Christ, Sam." Dean ground out, clutching the dashboard. "Don't take it out on the car. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Sam was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, then he turned to look at his brother.

"I wanted that moron dead."

"Sure you did, Sammy... " Dean replied, wincing as he tried to sit back comfortably. "Guy was an idiot."

Sam turned back to stare at the road. The truth was that he'd never wanted to kill anything as bad as he's wanted to kill Cal Williams tonight, and he wasn't even remotely sorry.

Not sorry at all.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Okay, I bowed to pressure and actually sat down and wrote stuff. Go me! Hope it was worth the wait. The past three chapters have has a bit of an edit too - this story started off being season 2, but now it's season 3 and has all that deal angst in it. So you might want to go back and read the previous chapters before starting this new one - or not, s'up to you :-)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

**

* * *

****4**

"Dean, let me take a look." Sam called through the bathroom door and Dean reached over, holding his hand against the handle.

"Sam, Jesus. Just give me a minute, okay?"

The lock was busted and he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep Sam out for much longer, but he just needed a few moments more to pull himself together. He could see his blanched, tear-streaked face reflected in the mirror over the sink and even he had to admit that he looked like crap. Hearing Sam's frustrated sigh, Dean took his hand away – satisfied that his brother wasn't going to barge in, at least for another few minutes anyway, and he sat back down on the edge of the bath.

He'd managed to keep Sam from playing doctor so far, Dean had somehow dodged his brother and made it to the bathroom alone as soon as they'd got back to the motel room. He knew he was being stupid – he was hurt and they both knew it, but there was a part of him that just couldn't let anyone take care of him, not even Sam. He was the strong one – he was the one that took care of other people. He was meant to take care of Sammy, not the other way around.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Dean pulled himself to his feet using the towel rail for support and slowly stripping off his shirt and t-shirt and undoing his fly, he pulled his now slightly baggy jeans low on his hips to expose the surgical dressing on his belly. Grimacing, he carefully tugged the adhesive tape away from his skin. The dressing was sodden with blood, and so was the waistband of his jeans and it came away easily to expose the swollen scar beneath.

"Sonovabitch." He hissed and swallowed dryly. Busted stitches were never a good thing, especially when they were meant to be holding your insides in, and grabbing the hand towel from the rail beside him, he dunked it into the sink full of cold water and wadding it up, he carefully pressed it against the bleeding wound.

"Dean." Sam yelled from outside the door. "I'm counting to three then I'm coming in!"

Dean sighed and eased himself back down to the side of the tub. Wasn't like he could hide this from Sam, so he may as well give in, and leaning over as Sam began to count, he pulled the handle and opened the door.

Sam's shaggy head immediately appeared round the door and one look at his brother and his face fell. "Dude, you look terrible."

"Really?" Dean replied through gritted teeth. "Cuz I feel just peachy, Sam." His midsection was one big throb from groin to ribs and just looking at the bloody wound was making his feel sick. He was far from squeamish, but this wasn't a hunting injury – he'd actually been cut open and had someone's fingers poking around in his innards – it was different, and it made him feel kind of queasy at the thought of that.

"Come on, Dean. Let me see how bad it is. Then we can decide if you need to go back to the hospital."

Dean sighed. He wasn't going back to that place – no way, never. But he let Sam help him up off the tub and they made their way back to the bedroom, where he gingerly lowered himself to his bed, trying to bite back the pathetic whimper of pain that was lurking somewhere in his throat.

"Stitches busted?" Sam asked.

"Little bit." Dean replied, shrugging and he gingerly pulled the damp towel away from the scar to take another look. It didn't seem to be bleeding that much anymore which was a bonus, but still – it was a bit of a mess.

"Well that's just great." Sam replied, and grabbing the car keys from the side, he headed towards the door.

"Dude, where are you going?"

"I'm going to that drug store down the road to get some supplies." Sam replied, not looking as his brother.

Dean struggled to his feet again and tried to grab hold of Sam's arm to stop him, but Sam shrugged him off. "Sam, what's going on?"

Sam turned round to face him, but wouldn't look him in the eye. "Your stitches are busted, you're bleeding and we don't have any dressings in the first aid kit. We can either go back to the hospital, or I can go get some supplies. Choice is yours?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it?" Dean replied.

Sam sighed heavily. "I'll be back in twenty," and before Dean could argue, his brother was gone.

-o-

The makeshift icepack had pretty much melted by the time he heard Sam open the motel room door in the dark, and still half asleep and disorientated, Dean attempted to sit up – which was big mistake. Cursing, he sank back down and tried to breath through the pain, and cracking open an eye, he saw his brother stumble across the carpet and drop onto the bed opposite. He could smell booze coming off Sam in waves and in the dim light from the bathroom, he could see quite clearly that his brother was hammered.

"Tell me you didn't go back to that bar, Sam?" Dean groaned.

Sam hiccupped loudly and Dean silently prayed he wasn't going to puke – he didn't want to relive that long _long_ night that he'd spend in hospital right after his surgery. "I... I didn't go back to the_ bar_, Dean... I went... I went to the _drugstore_."

"Uh huh. They sell booze at the drugstore now?"

Sam snorted, and held up the bag he held in his left hand. "I got first aid stuff... Then I stopped at the liquor store," and he held up the brown paper bag that he held in his right.

Dean threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. His head was pounding, everything hurt and he was too tired to deal with anything that didn't involve taking a truck load of painkillers, let alone a wasted Sam. Why did everything in their lives have to be so complicated? Why did God friggin' hate them so much? All he'd wanted was a quite night out and what he got was his guts almost spilling over his own shoes and a guilt ridden little brother.

"What are you doing, Sammy?" Dean sighed. "First you go all Charles Bronson on that idiot in the bar, and now you're drinking Night Train out of a paper bag? And please tell me you weren't driving my car in that state?"

"What if I am?" Sam replied, dropping the drugstore bag on the floor and taking another drink from the bottle. "What difference does it make? Whatever I do, it doesn't make any difference so why shouldn't I do what I like? Not like you're gonna be round much longer, is it?"

Dean inwardly cringed. He'd been expecting another meltdown soon, but Sam could have picked a better time. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to elbow himself upright again, hissing at the throb of pain that tore through his stomach muscles. He didn't want to do this again, not now. The deal... Everything came down to the goddamn deal. He knew it was killing Sam but it wasn't like he could take it back. It was done – sealed with a kiss, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Sam was alive and that's all that mattered... All that had ever mattered.

"Sam, please... Not now, okay. You're drunk, I feel like crap and it's like two a.m. or something?"

Sam snorted then got unsteadily to his feet and took another swig out of the bottle, wincing at the taste of the cheap booze. "I don't understand you, Dean. How can you care so little about the fact that you're dying? How can you not care that you're going to _hell_? What's _wrong_ with you, man?"

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again. He didn't even know how to answer that one.

"You don't know how this feels, you selfish sonovabitch. It's like a knife in my gut every single day. You sold your soul for me, for _me... _Dad died to save you, and you'll be dead soon, all because of me - but I'll still be here... Alone."

Dean sighed heavily. Sam was right, he had been selfish – he'd sold his soul for Sam because he just couldn't live with the alternative, and now Sam was facing the same thing. But Sam was stronger than him... Sam had been okay on his own. Sam had always wanted an out and that's what he was going to get when the deal came due. Sam was going to get the life he always wanted.

"I can't save you, Dean... I've tried and tried, but I can't find a way to save you." Sam murmured, wiping away the tears that had begun to slip down his cheeks with the back of his hand, and Dean watched helplessly as Sam suddenly went bone white and bolted to the bathroom, dropping the paper bag as he went. The sticky red liquid that looked far too much like blood in the dim light began to soak into the carpet in front of him and Dean closed his eyes, trying not to listen to Sam lose his dinner and a pint of Night Train Express down the toilet.

Why did everything in their lives end with blood?


End file.
